#geraskiersource

JASKIER & GERALT 💛

There is someone behind him, chasing him, getting closer with each step he takes, each desperate breath he tries to force into his screaming lungs.

Jaskier knows that it’s futile.

He is no fighter, and though that means that he is the prey, it’s clear that he wasn’t meant for that either, his legs shaking and his muscles twitchting as he’s trying not to get stuck in the muddy forest floor.

“Help!” he screams.

“Someone help me, please!”

But to no avail.

Behind him, there are footsteps, but he doesn’t dare look, knowing that if he gives in, he might just as well slit his own throat.

Is it Rience? Has he found him again, ready to finish what he started?

He can feel his hand starting to burn, can smell the stench of burning flesh and just as his foot gets caught on a root carefully hidden underneath some leaves, he can feel two arms around his waist.

As he closes his eyes to accept his fate, Jaskier lets out one last scream. For himself or the forest, he does not know. Do you really make a sound if no one is there to hear it?

But there is no pain. No fire, no sizzling, no smoke, just warmth.

That, and the two arms still tightly wrapped around his waist, holding him close.

“Jaskier,” Geralt mumbles, his face buried into the bard’s hair.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you. It’s just a dream, you’re safe.”

It takes a moment for reality to catch up with him, but then Jaskier feels it. The mattress below him, the blanket covering them both.

He hears the sound of the last few pieces of wood burning in the fire places, crackling as the fire eats away at it, and dollops of rain falling against the window with a random yet comforting rhythm.

And, loudest of all, he hears Geralt’s hearbeat. Steady and slow, each thud pulling him back into reality more and more.

Thud.

He is safe.

Thud.

Geralt is here.

Thud.

Slowly, he turns around so that he is facing the Witcher, their chests flush. He mimics the sleepy smile on Geralt’s face and leans in close for a kiss.

Thud, thud, thud.

The first night they spend together, Geralt half expects the bard to try and jump his bones. He doesn’t, though, apparently too occupied composing his next song.

“How about -” he strums the lute, making a series of noises that Geralt doesn’t think he’ll ever get accustomed to.

They sit by a fire together. Two bedrolls nearby, next to one another, and that, also, is a new sight. The bard was quick to claim a spot right next to Geralt, all while muttering something about needing to keep warm at night. Geralt didn’t protest it.

“No, that’s not quite right, is it - I should try -”

“Bard,” Geralt grunts.

Finally, the bard looks at him. His eyes widen when he notices the food that Geralt is holding out towards him.

“You haven’t eaten since we left Posada,” Geralt says simply.

And it’s not so much that Geralt is worried about him. It’s more so that he doesn’t want to have a dead body on his hands and, for some reason, the bard refuses to leave.

“Oh. Oh, how lovely. Thank you.”

He will. It’s just a matter of time before he does, Geralt thinks.

Their first fight happens when the bard stubbornly refuses to let Geralt cross through Blaviken. He learns quick, apparently, because after that first punch, not only does he not bring up the tales of a butcher, but also his scent fills with both concern and rage whenever someone else does.

Now, he stands stubbornly in front of Roach, arms crossed as he looks up at Geralt.

“No, no, no, Geralt, you don’t really want to go there, do you?”

“It’s the quickest route.”

“And it is also Blaviken! We can go around, why are you in such a rush all of a sudden?”

“I’m going,” Geralt growls at him, already steering Roach to step around him. “You can stay behind if you so choose, bard.”

This will be it, Geralt thinks. No more of lute melodies or irritating songs. Just blessed silence that he now so dreads.

“Oh for Melitele’s sake.”

To Geralt’s surprise, there’s a heavy sigh from behind and then footsteps follow. The bard rushes after him.

“Geralt, slow down! I’m coming. I’m coming! Gods, you can be so stubborn sometimes. Did you truly believe I was going to let you go there alone?”

“Hm.”

Geralt doesn’t say that he did.

The first time the bard sings Toss A Coin in front of an audience, Geralt sits in the back and fears the worst.

They have just arrived in this town and most of the people gathered at the tavern seem blissfully unaware of a witcher’s presence. The bard has gone through his usual repertoire of jaunty tunes and Geralt hasn’t been expecting him to get to this one - in fact, he’s certain the reason the bard hadn’t brought it up before is because he knew Geralt would protest it.

Now, though, it’s too late. The bard sings of elves and devils, a nicely colorized version of what had happened in Posada.

It doesn’t go well.

But rather than blame Geralt for it, the bard is furious with the crowd around him. Even if Geralt hadn’t believed the bard’s words, his posture, his scent, they all give it away. The way he puts himself in front of Geralt when they leave, as though trying to shield him from the townsfolk.

“Absurd, this is simply absurd,” the bard huffs and puffs once they’re outside. “They know nothing! How can they claim that - gods, they don’t even know you, if they had known the things you’ve done for them -”

“Bard.”

“No, no, don’t give me that, don’t tell me this is fine, it is very much not!”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Well, I think I’ve been around you enough to be able to guess, my dear friend.”

Friend.

It’s the first time the bard has called him his friend.

After a particularly bad hunt, Geralt stumbles into their room still high on potions, black veins running through his face and all senses heightened, painfully so.

The moment he opens the door, the bard begins to ramble, except he cuts himself off as soon as he looks up and his eyes land on Geralt.

The bard blinks, slowly, and the movement of his body rings loudly in Geralt’s ears. He tries not to read too much into the bard’s expression or the way his heart skips a beat as he continues to stare. Instead, Geralt continues forward on unsteady legs until his knees hit the edge of the bed and buckle underneath him. He sways, but to his surprise there’s a hand on his shoulder that steadies him

“Alright, big guy, slowly,” the bard says, his voice barely a murmur. As though he knows how loud everything is, how overwhelming. As though he listened when Geralt had told him about the potions, about their effects.

He must have.

“Come on, now. Let’s - yeah. Let’s get you sitting.”

And the bard sits with him, not a trace of fear on him, even as Geralt trembles with the aftershocks, more beast than a human.